Fifteen
by Silver Rising
Summary: He's fifteen and I want him, and it's wrong, but I cannot help it... Harry/Oliver SLASH


I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it.  
  
The subtle glances in my direction, the way he stands closer and closer, how he hugs me and touches me and licks his lips when he knows I'm watching.  
  
If he were older, or anyone else, it would be easier - but no, it's Harry, Harry who's just fifteen, Harry who's not legal, not of age, who's four years younger than I am - who I want so badly.  
  
When I see him I focus only on him. My lips ache to touch his own - my hands are, restless, sitting idle while his tan skin beckons for my touch. The curve of his backside teases me, as does he, when he needlessly bends over to retrieve an object not worthy of retrieval - his eyes glow when they look into mine, how they seem a mirror into his very soul, waiting and wanting but never having.  
  
When he hugs me I can feel his heart beating right next to mine, in sync with my own, and it makes me feel weak and vulnerable... yet I want nothing more than to throw him down and press my lips to his, to feel him beneath me, to kiss his neck and his collar and his chest and lower... I want to run my hands along his firm muscles, feeling the hard bands shift with my every movement... I want to hear his breathy moans and sighs and I want to hear him call my name, and mine alone, when he climaxes.  
  
But then I remember that he's fifteen, he's fifteen and he's not legal and and I'm not supposed to lust after him, to want him to be on his knees in front of me, to feel him writhing under me. I'm supposed to be his Quidditch trainer and guide him in the art of the game, not in the art of sex.  
  
He's fifteen but he's a tease, and he knows I cannot look away - he's fifteen and he wants me, I can tell, but I cannot act, for it is wrong - he's fifteen and I'm almost twenty, and that's too many years between us. While everything is wrong, it all feels so right, and there is nothing I can do to banish my thoughts and feelings. There is nothing I can do to stop the images of him spread out before me, eyes darkened with lust, hands reaching for my body, spreading heat and warmth and feeling... There is nothing I can do to stop my hand from trailing down my own body, to grasp my own hardness, while I envision his hand there, his hand steadily pumping, pulling, making me gasp and cry out...  
  
I watch him as he pretends to need my help, pretends to not know what to do. I watch him as he asks me to sit on his broom, and help him with a maneuver he could do in his sleep. I watch as he grasps my waist, hands sliding needlessly under my shirt, to caress my bare skin, to make me bite hard on my lower lip. I watch as my hands grip the broom, grip because I know if I do not clench the traitorous hands they will wander to his own, and will began something that I dare not complete.  
  
I watch and I remember he's only fifteen, and fifteen is not legal, yet I do not stop him when he leans over me, when he brushes by me, when he knows I'm behind him yet he turns at the last minute and our lips are but an inch apart...  
  
He will be legal in time, but I am old enough to be an older brother, older and more experienced - I believe he is untouched, but I am not, and I should not be his first. He should be with someone pure and innocent, as he is, and someone that will not want to be rough, to nip and bite and press and everything that I imagine doing to him.  
  
He should not be with someone that's already graduated, already started his life, when he could be with someone that is younger and getting ready to face the world, so that they can step out together... but the looks he gives me suggest otherwise, and those glances and those brushes are enough to make me stiffen, and rub against the insides of my trousers. The touches and the whispers make my head pound, and I have to restrain myself from pouncing, from taking him right then and there, no matter where it be; the Quidditch pitch has soft grassy spots, the Gryffindor Common Room has secluded corners, his own bed lies upstairs, alone and waiting...  
  
But he is fifteen and I should know better - when he is older, perhaps, but for now I must push down my feelings and desires, and find another way to relieve myself, and try to see someone else behind my eyelids when I'm hard and panting and close to release.  
  
He's fifteen and there is nothing I can do. 


End file.
